A Less than Silver Bullet
by WaltzingClutz
Summary: "Well it's a good thing I'm not an assassin now isn't it, agent MacTaggert. My job title's 'specialized field agent', haven't you heard?" Charles!Wesley, future Erik/Wesley
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings for future chapters: slash, violence, and cursing

Chapter 1 – Moira meets the solution to all her problems...sort of.

"That's all well and good, Ms. MacTaggert, but that still doesn't explain to us how Colonel Hendry could be at two places at once-"

"Not two places at once," Moira interrupted thinking back to when the red devilish (literally! Could you believe it?) man grabbed the Colonel's hand and disappeared in poof of flame and red smoke. That was it. That was how he had done it. It must have been some form of instant transportation or something. But how could she explain that without earning herself a one way ticket to the typing pool?

There was only one answer to that: She didn't.

"An impersonator then," suggested Agent Stryker from the right. "Was it possible the man you were trailing was a double, a fake?" That was a mistake only a rookie would make but Moira supposed she should feel a bit grateful to him. He was giving her the benefit of the doubt, believed she wasn't just some crackpot agent chasing ghost conspiracies and the like. And if it had not been for her gut instinct practically screaming at her that this was their guy that day, she would have believed him as well. But she hadn't gotten this far in her career not listening to her instincts.

"No, I am absolutely positive that the man I saw was indeed U.S. Army Colonel Hendry."

The chief cleared his throat, "In nothing but your underwear I'm sure." Why did it always have to come back to that?

Fists clenched tightly behind her back till their knuckled turned white. It was only years of practiced professionalism and remembrance of condescending 'Moira, are you sure? That's not a very ladylike job's that stopped her from turning around and banging against the door repeatedly with her head...or her bosses' for that matter. Instead she pressed on thinking of how to break it all down without jeopardizing her life's career, "Whether or not I was dressed 'less than professionally'", and god didn't it kill her a little on the inside to say that. What was she thinking? Oh that's right, trying to maintain the joke that was 'national security'. Moira continued, "is beside the point."

"Then what is the point? Unless you have a way to prove Colonel Hendry was there, I'm afraid this meeting is already over." The head fold his hands under his chin and looked at Moira expectantly.

Moira was stuck. If she kept her silence, she could keep her dignity and accept a quiet dismissal, because really, there was no way her credibility would survive this. Years of hard work and investigation only to come up with what? A colonel had some underhanded dealings at a strip club in the middle of Las Vegas seconds before attending a conference all the way at the Capital in the White House War Room? Not that it wasn't true, but if Moira tried to explain it she would be the laughing stock of the entire CIA and be dismissed anyways with a great deal more noise.

A sigh and then all too soon folders were being put away, pens stowed back in pockets. Moira was seeing her life's work for acceptance and protecting her nation being swept under the proverbial carpet never to be seen again except as unsightly dust best kept aside with the rest of the Area 52 conspiracy theorist.

Her decision was made for her. If she was going to get sacked anyway, there should be nothing withholding her from saying the truth of what she saw. Typing pool here she comes. "Wait."

"Excuse me, Ms. MacTaggert but I've already said this meeting is over unless..."

"Yes, I know what you said, sir." Moira took a deep breath steeling herself.

A little more impatiently, "All right then, speak your peace."

Funny farm, typing pool, headlines 'Crazy CIA hails coming of the Anti-Christ aka Red Devil Man', serving tables for the rest of her life, "I haven't been one hundred percent truthful..."

~X~

Notepad? Check. Folders. Double check. Her favorite blue, ball-point pen that always wrote out with the perfect amount of ink for each stroke, thick enough to roll down smoothly across the paper but not enough for it to seep through the other side? No...no...noooo...Oh there it was, she had already tucked it in her front breast pocket. Another check then.

It had been a week since Moira delivered her report and she was clearing her desk. Apparently telling your boss about sparkling women and handmade tornadoes did more than earn you a one way ticket to the typing pool, it got you committed.

Not that she expected anything less. If Moira wanted to continue working with the CIA she had to attend two to ten years worth of mandatory therapy sessions and only after then would she be considered mentally sound enough to continue on to a career of memo typing and signing stacks of paper with no end in sight. Moira would be condemned to an existence of virtual purgatory, unable to move forward, unable to affect the world around her, unable to do much of anything at all really.

That was why Moira quit.

It would take years to salvage her reputation and by that time Moira was sure she'd have half her foot in the grave and her efforts too late. If only she had some evidence, proof that Hendry was one place for one moment and a quarter around the next. But in order to do that, she would have to find a way to prove that the red man was real. Perhaps she should rethink her decision of leaving the CIA? Maintain connection to an information network that was already established here for her.

But no, she had already exhausted all her resources before presenting her report to the higher ups. There simply were no previous records of research on the matter of such extensive human...human what? Abilities? Mutation (because honestly what else could explain the tail! She had heard of children born with extra thumbs so maybe it was some 'mutation' like that)?

Moira was half way done packing and contemplating taking up that bakery job her mother always wanted her to have when she spotted a portly man rapidly approaching her.

"Hold on, Ms. MacTaggert. That won't be necessary" He looked vaguely familiar, Moira tried to grasp the fleeting memory of the man but it simply slipped between her fingers. "Who-"

"Oh, of course! I was one of the members of the meeting we had just now." Now she remembered. He was the man who did not even have a seat at the table and had been seated all the way in the back.

Moira felt her cheeks warm in realization. Even as she was quitting she could not help trying to stutter out an apology to her ex-superior. "I'm so-so sorry. I didn't mean- I apologize so much, sir!" Moira would never live this day down. This whole week for that matter.

The man waved her off easily, "Don't worry. It happens all the time." Moira reserved the right to comment on that. "But most importantly please stop packing, Ms. MacTaggert."

Embarrassment gave way to confusion, Moira's brows scrunching up. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't quite understand."

"I'm saying, we managed to convince the board to reconsider your case."

She dare dream to hope. "And by reconsider you mean...?"

Here he smiled and held out a hand, "We'd like you back on the case. That is if you still want to, of course."

"Of course!" Moira shook his hand enthusiastically. "I mean, of course I would love to. Thank you for this opportunity, sir."

"No need for thanks, Ms. MacTaggert." The portly agent bowed his head bashfully. "It was our fault for dismissing your findings in the first place."

Moira wanted to ask how he managed to convince the higher ups to change their mind or even why he had believed her but decided it was best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. It must have shown on her face despite her efforts though.

"Well when I said 'we' I mean myself and a," he seemed to struggle to find the right words before settling for, "a 'close associate' of the CIA. He was the one who did the most 'convincing' actually." A close associate? And one powerful enough to persuade the chiefs with words alone? Because he certainly would not have evidence, Moira looked high and low for that. Before she could ask who this 'close associate' was, the man exclaimed, "I almost forgot." He turned around gesturing her to follow. "He's waiting for us now in the parking lot."

The parking lot, why the parking lot?

All too soon they hit the ground floor of the lot and there as somewhat expected, was a battered, beige mustang parked and waiting for them. Or so she assumed what with the man beside her making a straight beeline towards it and another coming out of the car to greet them. Hopelessness, embarrassment, excitement, and now doubt. Moira was a kaleidoscope of all sorts of emotions today.

"Excuse me, what is this?" Moira could not help asking as they stopped before the young man dressed in nothing but jeans and an old, worn leather jacket with a plain white shirt underneath.

The younger man simply smiled and said, "Wesley Gibson" as if that explained everything.

And really, it did. Wesley Gibson, Wesley Gibson...he couldn't really mean... "You're joking." She turned to her superior now. "Tell me you're joking right?"

"I'm afraid he's telling the truth, agent MacTaggert."

Hysteria. "The Killer? Not just _a _Killer, but _The_ Killer?" Incredulity. Messing up her second chance be damned. "We're CIA! There's a procedure we must follow under the law. We don't hire assassins and put hits on people..." An inkling of fear.

"Well it's a good thing I'm not an assassin now isn't it, agent MacTaggert. My job title's 'specialized field agent', haven't you heard?"

"I heard you were a 'close associate'"

AN: Inspired by several First Class/Wanted kink meme prompts which I wish there were more fills to t.t. First Class and this X-over are fast becoming my latest obsessions. 3's James McAvoy. Still working on how to eventually adapt Wesley's personality to Charles, not completely of course or else it's just Charles being BAMF with a gun. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Feedback is always appreciated!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I figured that post-Wanted, Wesley is significantly more chipper in between solving his 'stress' problems, getting revenge, and doing the job of his dreams, which he never knew he had, hence his characterization here. Trying to improve my writing style so this chapter might be written a little differently than the 1st. By the way, this fic will be based almost completely off the movies with only a few comic references (because author hasn't read most of them and according to the wiki, Wesley's a dick in his)

Also, re-watching the movie I found some redundancies/contradictions with the first chapter. Assume Moira knew that telling her superiors on the spot about Emma and Azazel wouldn't work and only came to them after trying to find the proof. There were some other errors in there, but I'll look for them when I finally get around to revising the first chapter.

Warning: If you're reading this for Erik/Charles!Wesley, it'll be a little slow going and most likely little things.

Chapter 2: Erik might be better off alone

"There's no one here."

"No one?" crackled the radio.

"No one," Wesley confirmed biting his lip as he leaned on the wall of the ship bridge, "No one alive at least." He let that sink in a little as he idly toed the corpse of who could have only been the captain, judging from the decorations, turning it over with the tip of his shoe till it lay flat on its back. Hands half curled, face frozen in terror, it was an all too familiar sight. There had to be over a hundred bodies just like it littered all over the ship.

Not that it was anything one Wesley 'The Killer' Gibson wasn't used to.

Dead bodies were kind of the end goal in his choice of profession after all. Though even Wesley had to admit the body count wasn't usually this high and the method of execution was rather unusual: knife wounds from angles the victims should have seen coming and shown signs of struggling accordingly, and bodies crushed oddly flat to the ground. If Wesley had to compare his own experiences, he would have say that the flattened bodies looked a lot like the ones he had left at the Empire State Building after they took the express route to the ground floor.

It was by no means Wesley's primary method of getting the job done, that what the guns and bullet bending skills were for, but it did get the job done and just as effectively at that. And he had done it enough times to be able to roughly estimate at what elevation bodies were dropped from and no way in hell was there anything that tall on this ship. Wesley gave it a few more seconds before reporting these exact observations to the agent on the other side of the line.

"Are you sure you're not over thinking this, Gibson?" said the agent doubtfully. "Maybe there's some equipment, machinery that the culprit used."

"Yeah and every soldier on this ship just stood there and let him?" Wesley scoffed at the idea. Hundred armed men on the ship and barely a shot fired for it. That had to be some stealthy ass piece of machinery.

"I suppose," the agent conceded his point, "but it still sounds a little strange to me."

"It 'sounds a little strange' to you? You're one to talk, Moira," Wesley couldn't help teasing. "Spying on the devil and a blond diamond bitch underneath a strippers club in nothing but your underwear? That's more than a little 'strange', if you ask me."

"Why does it always come back to that?" It was more of an exclamation than a question but Wesley couldn't help trying to answer anyways. "Well-" Moira cut him off. "No one asked you!" Wesley settled for a small laugh that Moira must have sensed, rather than heard since he had released the radio trigger, for she broke in again. "Quit laughing, you knew it was true. In fact, you're the one who restarted this case in the first place after hearing my 'strange story'."

"They were you're words, not mine." In Wesley's defense, he hadn't really believed Moira at all that time. It was more about getting a hold of the CIA's resources in order track down his latest target, Sebastian Shaw, since his own were rather lacking.

Many of the connections Wesley used before during his early days within the Fraternity were lost to him after he had killed Sloan and the other assassins and he could only go so far on footwork and personal investigation alone. This was the reason why Wesley would continue his partnership with the government, at least until he found Sebastian Shaw. For such a hands-on kind of guy, Shaw was turning out to be more evasive than even the ex-Fraternity members Wesley had to track down across the states.

Moira steam rolled on as if she never heard him. "And another thing, who was it that interrogated that so-called 'diamond bitch' in Russia and saw her powers first hand?" Moira paused to take catch her breath before continuing, "Which by the way was the stupidest stunt I have ever seen. Do you understand that you were this close to single-handedly starting World War III? Not to mention the affect her powers could have had over you!"

Wesley could tell Moira had been meaning to get that off her chest for awhile. It was just, in between his breaking into the 'retired' Russian official's home and coming back with Shaw's plan for nuclear holocaust, she had never had the chance. So he decided to take pity on her and let her go on with her little tirade, tuning her out instead. Wesley probably deserved it for one reason or another anyways.

The headaches he had been having ever since his two encounters with Frost on the other hand, particularly from their latest encounter, Wesley could do without. He could only guess it was a side effect of his inexplicable immunity to telepathic attacks. A nifty bonus to being a Fraternity assassin, he guessed. Or at least, Wesley assumed he had immunity as he was the only one that did _not _suffer from sort of mental break when the CIA and he managed to track Shaw and his men down to the docks.

Hell, for all he knew he was being mind-fucked again and it would turn out that Shaw was his real father. But Wesley was pretty sure that no one would think to pull the same trick on him twice. At least, he hoped so. Wesley didn't have a very good track record with these sorts of things.

It was five minutes later and another half a minute of silence filled only by the distant sound of waves later before Wesley figured he had given Moira enough time and it was okay to speak again. "I'm just telling you how I see it," an only somewhat intentional pun he couldn't help getting out there and Wesley continued on before Moira could get started again, "Besides when the mutants are involved, you never know what's possible."

Moira hummed in agreement over the line, "Hmm, I suppose. But what sort of 'mutation' could have caused it?"

Now there was a thought. The possibilities were positively limitless, "No idea. Mass manipulation, telekinesis..." Nothing was too far out there, not when they had a pretty little thing of a telepath that could turn her skin into crystal as icy to the touch as her bitch personality locked up nice and tight underground in a maximum security facility. To think, all this time Wesley thought the ability to bend bullets and shoot the wings off fly was amazing. Not that it wasn't, don't get him wrong. That was probably one his favorite parts of his job. Then again, that wasn't saying much since every part was his favorite. But, these mutations, they were something else entirely.

Of course, Wesley would never voice his wonderment. After the governments' initial discovery of the existence of Shaw and his mutants, political climates had been rapidly shifting and it was most likely this little push with the boat and the missiles that would break the camel's back and shift the world's attention from 'capitalist' and 'communist' to the collective that were the mutants, or 'national security threats' as those in the know had come to call them. 'Freaks' was another term used just as frequently, particularly by Agent Stryker. If the government knew of his 'sympathies', they would probably be more annoyingly insistent on trying to keep him pinned under their radar that they already were.

Not that Wesley was not in a precarious situation with the governments to begin with. Not only was he a notorious assassin but just the other month while they were beginning the drafting of some anti-mutant legislation that Wesley was definitely not supposed to know about, there came into question whether Wesley could be classified as a mutant himself and should be taken into custody.

It was only thanks to the intervention of the prodigy kid, Hank McSomething or other, invited because of his intensive genetics study of mutant genes and expertise, that Wesley didn't have to shoot someone. The young scientist managed to defuse the situation by citing Wesley's DNA sample taken from an earlier blood test, which Wesley had to take as a formality before working with the CIA, did not appear to have the same gene abnormalities that were apparent in Frost's. The debate hadn't lasted much longer after that and quickly tapered out ending when someone wisely pointed out that if they wanted to jail Wesley, they might as well go arrest all of the Olympic medalist as well. Understandably, the leaders of Venezuela and Spain were among those not entirely opposed to the idea.

"We can discuss it later, check the archives to see if we already got the mutant on record," said Wesley abruptly. "What I'm more concerned about now is when can I get off this fucking ship?" There was nothing left for him to do here. Wesley had stopped the ship and investigated the stern and back thoroughly for any signs of the culprit – he didn't find any by the way, only the corpses – and Wesley had to admit it was beginning to unnerve him a little being around so many blank faces.

Wesley killed people. Wesley killed lots of people. Wesley killed lots of people he didn't even know, ended goals and aspiration he would never understand, delivered judgment for crimes or future crimes he never knew, and put bullets through more faces than he could count that he had not truly seen till the day of their execution. There were simply too many men to kill out there for Wesley to bother. But at the very end of the day, Wesley could at least say he knew their names. Names meant they earned their fate. Wesley couldn't even place a name for the captain that lay at his feet, let alone the rest of the crew's. Dead bodies he could handle, dead bodies without names, not so much.

"If you're finished with your investigation, we can meet you with the helicopter where we dropped you off."

"You're fucking with me." A pause, "Tell me, you're fucking with me, Moira because I am not swimming another mile for the pickup." The water was fucking freezing. Wesley could barely feel his legs by the time he reached the ship and it was nothing short of a miracle that allowed him to climb up with them. Wesley had almost been certain he had lost them along the way. And while he didn't in the end, Wesley was more than certain he would on the swim back.

"Of course you're not, Wesley." Moira was having far too much fun with this, just deserts for their first meeting. "That's what the lifeboats are for." Wesley wasn't sure who he wanted to shoot more, the Russians who lost control of their ship and wouldn't let the helicopter through the quarantine line in the first place or Moira who was probably laughing her ass off, dry in said helicopter. They were both quite a few miles away but Wesley was pretty sure he could make both shots. It was only the thought that he would have to swim all the way to shore afterwards that held him back.

Moira seemed to take pity on him though, oblivious to his thoughts "We could arrange for a direct pickup from the ship," she said. "But you would have to hold on for a little while; the higher ups are making negotiation as we speak."

"Sounds good to me, I'll be ready whenever." Wesley bit back a sigh of relief. "I'll get back to you, when we get the go ahead," said Moira and then the crackling static of the radio went out.

Knowing how the suits liked to take their time, Wesley settled himself for the long wait. He rolled his shoulders and let himself to lean fully on the wall behind him, ignoring the uncomfortably, wet squelch of his leather jacket. Wesley should have probably left it out to dry in the sun while he investigated the ship but it was a memento of his father's and he didn't want to risk losing it. Besides, he was afraid it would catch the smell of the sun baked corpses that even the weak wind failed to dispel.

Soon enough, Wesley found himself lulling off despite the bodies and wet jacket, he had done with worse. It had been a long day after all. Maybe when it was over, he'd treat himself to a night soaking in Recovery. Wesley figured he earned it after stopping World War III and still coming out with jack shit on Shaw. That and his toes were still feeling a little numb from his earlier dip. Yes, that sounded positively groovy, he thought closing his eyes to rest them for a bit.

Before Wesley could nod off completely though, he was startled by a distant poof and he ended up kicking out with the foot he had used earlier to roll over the captain on reflex, hitting the corpse in the face. There was distinctly fleshy thump and perhaps a little drool flying out, as the captains cheek cracked against the metal floor of the bridge.

"Fuck! I'm sorry!" Wesley spat out before he could stop himself, then awkwardly spent the next few seconds wiping away the newly acquired, watery red stain from his shoe on the captain's coat as listened for the source of the disturbance. He prayed to Fate that he knew the intruders name. Then there wouldn't be any witnesses.

Distantly, Wesley was aware of his name being called over the radio, but he decided to ignore it in favor of finding the origin of the sound, running out the bridge. It had been somewhere to his right but when he turned to look there was nothing, only the same desolate deck with bodies strewn about just as the original culprit left them. Wesley spent a few more minutes of looking around where he thought the sound originated before he gave up. Had it been his imagination?

"Wesley...Wesley Gibson! Killer!"

Much to Wesley's chagrin, it was the last name that finally caught his attention. "What is it?" 'The Killer' was the so-called codename he picked during his first few months with the Fraternity and had unfortunately been stuck with ever since. First prize for most original assassin name ever? Yeah, he didn't think so either.

Why couldn't he have a name like Fox's? Sweet, simple, and not a total fucking giveaway of what he did for a living. Whoever came up with 'The Killer' deserved to be shot. That is if they hadn't been already. Giving out bad codenames had to be some sort of crime against Fate. Their name must have popped up on a piece of cloth at some point.

"I've been calling you for ages. What's going on, on your end, Wesley? We thought we heard some fighting." Oh, Wesley thought, he must have set the radio off when he knocked over the dead guy. "What, that? That was nothing." Wesley hoped he didn't sound too nervous when he laughed.

"Nothing? That certainly didn't sound like nothing."

Wesley decided to go with the half truth, "I thought I heard something but I must have been hearing things." Or not, Wesley thought, as he heard the poof again but this time much closer, spotting the red in his periphery "Actually hold that thought, Moira. Something just came up."

"Wesley, what-"

Wesley barely managed to drop the radio in time to turn around and catch the incoming suited arm wielding a bladed-tonfa, slipping inside the attacker's guard to return with an elbow to the chest but to little avail. For the next moment, the world shifted in a flurry of red smoke and his arm was falling away to the earth far below. What the fuck? It was instinct alone that kept Wesley gripping on to his attackers arm and kicking away the spaded tail. Wesley dimly noted his attacker had a rather striking shade of red to match as well. His other arm in the meanwhile was preoccupied trying to disarm his attacker of his second blade.

Wesley felt the corner of his lips tug up in a wild grin even as he was aware that he and his attacker were falling to what logically could only be their deaths. The thought he could die...the thought of killing the man before him... it was freedom, it was exhilaration... It was the fucking time of Wesley's life. Every rapid breath he took was electrifying and every instant intensified, the world blurring in its rush to meet them. Ingrained muscle memory and reflex were all that kept him in the fight, action to fast for thought.

Then it all seemed to slow to a crawl and Wesley could think clearly again as his adrenaline kicked into full throttle, world pulsing around him with each rapid beat of his heart and he could finally _look_ at his attacker. Small horns, spaded tail, and a quite literally devilish face, this must have been Moira's mutant teleporter, the one that whisked Colonel Hendry away. He was also most likely the one to have caused the mysterious murders on the ship, Wesley thought as he saw they were falling over the ship. But most importantly to Wesley, he was the reason Shaw had been so frustratingly difficult to track.

If only this man's name appeared on the loom, Wesley would have gladly ended him. But alas, it had not as of yet surprisingly enough and it was a struggle not to curve the bullet toward the red man's delicate skull –he wasn't Sloan, he stuck with the code– when Wesley finally managed to draw his gun and fire.

His forearm had been caught and pulled away by the tail, but it had done little to stop Wesley, for as long as Wesley could curve his wrist, he could curve his bullets. His shot must have appeared as a final act of desperation when he finally took it; blade closing in on his neck, gun seemingly angled to the ocean floor but with a slight twist of his wrist the bullet impossibly made its way straight through the red man's tail, leaving the end dangling from bare shreds of skin.

A roar of pain, a quick poof of smoke and fire, and the ground was rushing up to meet them much sooner than Wesley predicted. The impact itself though was considerably less than expected, but it was still enough to finally jolt the red man's arm out of his grasp. They groaned in unison as they attempted to pull themselves up. The teleporter must have not expected the sudden landing as well, concentration broken by the sensitive, torn bone and muscle in his tail and it was enough to allow Wesley to stand on his feet first and end the fight.

This time around, the kick in the face was entirely intentional.

~X~

"Reds Agree to Scrap Bases in Cuba; U.S. Greets Move as Tension Eases; Thant, Aides Go to Havana Tuesday" It was the yesterdays headline for the Washington Post paper Erik had picked off the street to read in the diner. Schmidt had failed then, Erik thought with vicious satisfaction. It had been no mystery to Erik what Schmidt's plans for the world were, Erik pieced together enough information from _Herr Doktor_'s associates and it all lead up to one thing: Nuclear War.

The recent crisis had Schmidt's name written all over it. But why he would be desirous for such an end, Erik could not imagine.

"And what would you and your son like today?" asked an all too chipper waitress with a checkered apron. Son? Well, it was much better than the looks Erik got taking the boy to a hotel at any rate. "The Brunch Special for myself and," he threw a glance towards said boy but he appeared insistent in keeping up with his stubborn silence. It didn't like he would be saying anything again anytime soon.

The first and only time the boy had spoken in his presence was three days ago, when Erik had originally found him in an out of the way alley, after he finished a lovely discussion with a man from Dormagen. "Some chicken soup for the boy," Erik ordering something light for the boy's stomach.

"Would you like anything to drink with that?" He shook his head negatively. "Just water for both will be fine."

The boy's name was Scott, no last name as far as the boy knew, or so he had told Erik, and recently escaped from an orphanage. That was all the boy had given him their first meeting and then he spoke no more. But he didn't have to. The persistent silence he maintained afterwards was far more telling. Thin, hunched shoulders, a certain quiver that shook the small frame at every approach, not to mention the scars, Erik had been under the hands of one madman far too long to not recognize the handiwork of another's.

Had it been a case of 'standard' abuse as he originally assumed when he found the half-starved boy – after what he endured under Schmidt's less than tender care, little else could truly compare – Erik would have abandoned the boy as soon as his conscience allowed. With the authorities or even a heavy handed caretaker were much safer places to be than by his side. But it was the boy's bandaged eyes, which currently hid behind thick glasses and a large cap, and their powerful red gaze that convinced Erik otherwise, not only because of the experimentation they suggested but the revelation they entailed.

Erik was not alone.

Erik was not the only being that stood above mankind. Erik was not the only one who wielded powers that humans could only dream of and before him sat the evidence clear as day that Erik was not alone. Erik never paused to consider Schmidt and his agelessness in that number. In his mind, Schmidt was lower than even the lowliest of the normal humans.

"Orders up!" said the waitress from earlier tray in hand, "One Brunch Special for you and chicken soup for your little man." She set down her load, "Oh yes and you ordered water," she set down two plastic cuts, "Sorry about that. We've got a full house this morning."

Erik waved her off politely, "It's fine, no trouble at all."

"If you need anything at else, I'll be walking around. Just give me a holler." Then the waitress was off and about again, high heels clicking against the tiled floor.

"Eat your food," said Erik to the boy with a sigh, neatly folding the newspaper and placing it to the side.

The boy stubbornly kept his mouth shut and hands folded under the table. The silence Erik could understand but sometimes the boy was obstinate about the oddest things. He'd certainly eaten the complementary hotel desserts in a hurry, which he threw up the morning after, so Erik knew he had no problem eating in general. Still upset with Erik waking him so early in the morning then. Well Erik would have none of it, the boy had chosen to stay with him after all when Erik offered to drop him off with the proper authorities, so he had to follow some ground rules, like keeping himself nourished.

"Eat your food before I make you." A shake of the head, no, the boy thought he was bluffing didn't he. No better time than now for the boy to learn the difference between a bluff and seriousness then, Erik figured with a shrug. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

No sooner after Erik determined the cost was clear, did a spoon full of soup shoot up and fly straight towards the boy's mouth, pried carefully apart by the fillings of his teeth and then forced to clench down. "There, not so hard was it?" Even blindfolded, Erik sensed Scott's glare challenge him to try again.

This was going to be a longer morning than Erik anticipated.

AN: Any feedback or criticism welcome.


End file.
